"Stelios!" Perhaps because it wasn't Christmas for him he looked radiant.

"I've studied the English in my time here," he said. "They don't really like times of duty. They hate the cold. Self-abandon in the sun is what they're made for."

"Don't write that home!"

"Why not? Now the world thinks all Greeks are lazy, why shouldn't I say a few things about other nations?" But he was smiling as he said it.

"My son is lazy. I don't know about the sun-worship."

Stelios and I smiled together. There wasn't anything else to say, not passing in the street like this. It had to be a bigger conversation or no conversation at all.

"I'll bring it in for you."

"Oh, would you?"

I stood looking at it, turning my head from side to side, shifting my vantage point as if it were a new painting on the wall. It was anchored by having its trunk tapered into one of those flat logs — they charge you extra for that and the result rarely seems balanced. It would be much better in a tub of earth.

We ended up rummaging for the largest possible pot in the shed, and Stelios filled it with earth from the shady patch under the wall. A dozen miniature daffodils with fresh white hairy roots were dislodged in the process. If anyone else had done that..."Don't worry," I cried gaily, "I'll bed them in again." It was good to be outside. Good to be in motion. Causes, reasons, prompts for joy. Hell, I don't know.

When Hen came back, on the dot of one, I tried to see through him, but so much of my own stuff got in the way, I gave up. We had a sandwich and a bought mince pie. The pastry was thick and stuck to our teeth. He said none had ever been so good as his mother's. I went to explain that baking pies at home takes time and effort and then gave up. Over a cup of tea we shared the thin newspaper, full of quizzes and crosswords and adverts for sales. "Keep your brain alive! Go shopping! Keep your brain alive, go shopping!" Stelios wouldn't have said that, although Hen was right. 

On Christmas Day, as people have taken to saying, because the 25th is the one we make the fuss about, things followed the routine they had for the last twenty years. Between nine and ten we gathered in the kitchen, not dressed, and while spinning out the time, vowed not to eat much because of what was to come. Hen put on the radio. Cardy ate several satsumas, Jess three slices of toast and Hen cereal and toast.

"Not eating, Kay?"